Page 20

G unnilde finished her braid, tied it, and flung it over her shoulder.

She ventured a quick look across the room at James, who had finished his wash and was now patting himself dry.

Whoever would have thought that one day, she would be in a position to see the handsome Sir James Wycliffe clad only in his braies?

It was true, he was shivering and scowling at this present moment, muttering under his breath whenever he happened to stub his toe or drop his drying cloth, but even that did not detract from the fact he was fine and tall and had the face of an angel.

True, he would likely be one of the more disagreeable angels that turned up to condemn you or point a fiery sword in your direction but still...he was impressive to look at. She wondered what he must have been like as a squire.

Try as she might, she simply could not imagine him running to do his master’s bidding, obliging and eager with a dagger at his hip. No, he must have been a dissatisfactory sort of squire, she thought, rather Ancel Somers. Hal and his friends detested Ancel.

Ancel was Sir Ned’s squire and famously shirked his duties and was wildly unpopular with his fellow squires. He was afraid of horses, disliked dogs, and was always trying to skip out on his obligations. She recalled Sir Ned’s exasperation and experienced a pang.

Quickly, she banished both Ancel and Sir Ned from her mind.

She didn’t want her thoughts to go haring off in that direction.

That would never do. Instead, she turned back to contemplate James in his braies.

That was a much nicer subject. The damp hair at his neck was forming into clinging curls there, for he wore it quite long.

“Have you ever jousted?” she asked impulsively, propping herself up on her elbow.

His shoulders were nice and broad even though he was not heavily muscled.

He cast down his drying cloth onto a nearby chair. He was tidy for a man, she thought. Hal would have thrown it down on the floor. “No, I have not.”

“Oh. Never wanted to?”

“No,” he repeated.

“Who was your master when you were a squire?”

He cast an impatient look her way. “Why? Do you think you might have heard of him?”

“I might, if he competed. You never know.” Ignoring her, he made for the bed. “You must have completed the necessary training to be a knight,” she persisted. “After all, you have been knighted.”

“Of course,” he answered impatiently.

“My father greatly admires knights and pageantry,” she said. “As do my brother and I.”

Pulling back the covers, he climbed into the bed. “There are different kinds of knights, Gunnilde. Those that like jousting, wenching, and drinking till they pass out and those that do not. You happen to have married the latter, a fault entirely of your own making, I might add.”

“Wine, wench, and song, you mean. Is that not what the ballad says?”

“Ballad? Which ballad?”

“I forget which one, but I’m pretty sure it had a Fair Margaret and a Sweet William in it.”

“That describes at least two thirds of the wretched things,” he answered with a curl of his lip. “It’s always fair someone and their lover who is neither sweet nor constant.”

“You are not a lover of ballads?” She turned her head sharply to look at him. “And you a musician!” In truth, she was more shocked by that than a knight who did not like jousting.

He shrugged his shoulder. “Their stories annoy me. They are always so dissatisfactory and so seldom make any sense.”

“How can you say so? Why, there are so very many of them to choose from. Sad ballads, tragic ballads, ballads where they all come to nasty endings, fantastical ballads where they get transformed into beasts—”

He turned to look at her. “That is precisely my point,” he interrupted.

“Scarcely anyone is ever rewarded or punished as they ought to be. Cheaters, liars, even murderers frequently get away with their sins. Others suffer and perish for no reason at all. Sometimes the characters change from lover to brother, to father or son. Everyone has the same name and the story is all jumbled up and usually there is no moral within at all. It...irritates me.”

Gunnilde regarded him with interest. “What about poetry?” she asked. “Do you like that?”

“It depends,” he said cautiously. “The quality of poetry you come across in the palace can differ wildly.”

She sighed wistfully. “I wish I liked poetry, for it is very popular at court at present.”

“You do not care for it?”

“No, for I find poetry dissatisfactory. If you find ballads lacking, then I feel the same about poetry.”

He was silent a moment, and she thought he had dropped the subject. Then all of a sudden he asked grudgingly, “What is it you find so dissatisfactory about it exactly?”

“Well, I can never make out its meaning,” she explained eagerly.

“On the page, it appears to be simply describing a yew tree or a cowslip and then everyone sits around and claps and says how terribly clever it is to reveal the truth about the nature of life or the humanity of man. It is all quite unfathomable to me.”

Unexpectedly, James laughed.

“It is not funny,” Gunnilde grumbled. “I can never penetrate the meaning, and I had to stop attending the poetry meet for I felt sure everyone would find me out.”

“I expect half the people there could not understand it,” he said dismissively.

“Constance even told me once that—” She bit off her words, looking suddenly stricken. “Oh, er—”

“What?” James asked. “What did she tell you?”

“Oh, I would rather not say, if you don’t mind. It is not really a fit subject for your ears,” she said apologetically.

“Not a fit subject for my ears?” he repeated, looking stunned.

“Yes, for you are very...proper, are you not?” She licked her lips nervously and James’s expression wavered from startled to something else, then back again. “After all, you said yourself that you do not like wine, wenches, and song.”

“When did I—? What the hells do you mean by that?” he said. “You hardly need to shield my ears from the conversation of two gently reared young women!”

Gunnilde regarded him with dismay. Oh dear, had she insulted him?

“It’s just that, well, I don’t want you think I’m, um, trying to blacken anyone’s reputation!

” she gabbled, feeling her cheeks turn hot as she grew increasingly flustered.

“And you see, it was purely a misunderstanding! Poor Sir Douglas did not intend any offence by it, I am sure!”

“ Sir Douglas? What the hells has he to do with this?”

Feeling quite overwhelmed by the vehemence of his reaction, and her own culpability in the affair, Gunnilde covered her face with her hands. The bed lurched and suddenly, his hands were at her wrists, dragging them from her face. He loomed above her. “Tell me, Gunnilde,” he said sternly. “Now.”

Gunnilde stared at him, her breath coming fast. “Oh! It was...really nothing,” she panted.

“Just, silly really. But you see, I never dreamed that poetry could be improper, so you see, I wanted to ask her about it, but of course, Constance had burned it, so I never got to see it after all.” She could not keep the wistfulness from her voice.

“Constance burned what?” he asked tersely. Gunnilde’s hands were now pinned on either side of her head against the mattress and James was half on top of her. She could scarcely think, let alone breathe!

“The lewd poem!” she blurted.

James stared down at her, but to Gunnilde’s surprise, instead of holding her gaze, his eyes roamed over her face, resting more on her lips than anywhere. “What lewd poem?” he asked huskily.

“The one Sir Douglas commissioned,” Gunnilde admitted. “But indeed, I never got to read it, and I doubt he even realized it was lewd. Most likely he thought it was just about an acorn or some such thing.”

“Most likely,” he agreed, his voice still gravelly, and Gunnilde was suddenly and unexpectedly thrown into an astonished suspicion that he was perilously close to kissing her . Wasn’t he? Surely not. But then...why else would he be so close and staring at her like that?

Her chest fluttered and she parted her lips expectantly as he lowered his face to hers. He was! He was going to kiss her. Gunnilde closed her eyes and angled her face toward his.

Then...nothing. She felt him move again and realized he was in retreat. She felt a sudden wild despair that he should leave her wanting like this. She should have known. Always, she seemed always destined for disappointment when it came to men.

Then it dawned on her, he was not moving away, rather the opposite. He was shifting over her restlessly and suddenly she realized what he was trying to do. He was trying to anchor himself more firmly against her.

She opened her legs to guide him, jostling her body against his own until James slid into place, exactly where he needed to be.

At once she squeezed her legs together, trapping his hips between her thighs, holding him fast and tethering him to her.

He gasped, and Gunnilde’s eyes flew open.

They stared at one another, breathing hard.

And that was not the only hard thing. His flesh was willing, she realized with stupefied gratification. More than willing, where it pressed up against her own, all hard and swollen with need, and there was nothing remotely polite about it.

James Wycliffe was keen as mustard to join his body with hers.

At least, his loins were keen, who knew what torturous thoughts were whirling about that pretty head of his.

Oh, gods, don’t let him stop , she thought desperately as her body throbbed and fluttered in a whirl of yearning.

She wanted to pull him closer and demand he gave her the attention she craved.

She hardly dared meet his eyes, lest he demand she release him, and oh, she did not want to!

“James,” she moaned, and a panicked look entered his eyes.

“Don’t,” he muttered, turning his face away. “For the gods’ sake, don’t make that noise. I can’t stand it.”